


Would you cry from happiness?

by EvilLittleWeasel



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilLittleWeasel/pseuds/EvilLittleWeasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was intending to write some fun and fluffy smut. Instead, I ended up with this depressing little story. Got to try again another time, I suppose.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Onni really does resist for as long as he can.

At first, he’s merely startled when the red-headed Icelander stumbles into his dream. The startlement soon turns into bemusement at the boy’s ignorance about even the basic rules of how the dreamworld works, mingled with grudging gratitude for the chance to talk to Lalli.

He also notes the Icelander’s joy at being able to be of use to someone. If Onni allowed himself such feelings, his heart might twist a little bit in sympathy. He knows what it is to feel useless. He knows that very well indeed.

***

In the confused aftermath of the attack by the strange spirits, the dreamworld around him dyed red both by the sunset and his own blood, Onni hardens himself against the wonder and admiration he glimpses in those green eyes. He also avoids dwelling too much on how or why the Icelander’s cry for help was able to reach him across such a distance.

(If he was listening a little more carefully than usual, it was only because he was worried about his sister and cousin. Nothing more than that.)

***

Onni also represses the images that briefly flash through his mind when the boy ‒ gods damn his innocence ‒ thanks him for the previous night, using words that in another context could mean something quite different. If he’s irritated at himself for having these thoughts, and if he lets that irritation seep into his voice when explaining over the crackling radio connection that he can’t help, that he has nothing to give… well, it’s for the best.

***

But the Icelander won’t leave well enough alone. And he has an uncanny ability to slip through all kinds of defences ‒ to insinuate himself into places that should be private, secret.

(Why does he keep asking if Onni remembers him? Onni has spent the past nights fending off dreams about undoing that braid, sinking his fingers into that mass of red hair. He would gladly forget if he could.)

It’s the smile that forces Onni to finally admit his defeat. The smile that creeps up onto the boy’s freckled face when he reminds Onni that he has not, in fact, been told not to return to Onni’s haven. Because that smile is not innocent. It’s just a little amused, just a little teasing. Onni wasn’t expecting such confidence. It catches him off guard, ties his tongue into knots.

He knows it’s only a matter of time after that.

Only a matter of time before the Icelander seeks him out again despite having been warned about the danger. Steps into the soft, cool twilight of Onni’s haven almost shyly, twisting his braid in his hands, but with that same confident little smile hiding somewhere just out of sight.

Only a matter of time before the smile returns, but this time, it’s very close to Onni’s face, and getting closer. Kisses can’t wipe it away. It persists no matter how hard Onni tries.

The Icelander even has the nerve to grin more widely when Onni pushes him down onto the rough surface of the large, flat rock by the lake, red hair spilling out over grey stone. He’s infuriatingly happy, infuriatingly beautiful in all his naked glory. Also surprisingly decisive when he pulls Onni down with him. And not at all shy about guiding Onni where he wants him, or about voicing his appreciation when Onni pushes into him. His moans and gasps as he is stretched wide drive Onni almost as mad as his long, roaming fingers. For just a short while, Onni manages to drown all thought into those sounds, into the hot tightness around his cock and the sharp bite of fingernails digging into his back.

***

The Icelander is still smiling afterwards, peaceful and content, when Onni smooths the sweaty strands of red hair out of his face to look at him. The smile of a person with no worries in the world. He can’t see the hollowness growing in Onni’s chest, the fear gnawing its way back inside him, the dark thoughts crawling back out from their hiding places as the sweat cools down on his skin.

It’s only when the first tear forces its way out of the corner of Onni’s eye that the smile disappears, giving way to confusion and then concern.

Onni turns his back on the Icelander’s stumbling questions. Doesn’t look at him as he wades into the dark water (so cold after the heat of another man’s body) to wash himself off. Keeps his eyes averted while he pulls his clothes on and throws the Icelander’s sky-blue cloak at him roughly.

The worst part is that the boy isn’t even angry, only bewildered. It makes it so difficult to tell him to leave. But he obeys meekly enough. It’s only at the border of Onni’s haven, at the edge of the grey, swirling mist, that he stops.  
“Will you tell me one thing, though?”  
Onni doesn’t want to tell him anything, but he can’t bring himself to just push the boy out, either. He remains silent.  
“What are you so afraid of?”

The question, though softly spoken, hits Onni like a punch in the gut. It’s too perceptive, too painful. It shocks him into anger, and it’s the anger that finally gives him the strength to drive the Icelander away.  
“Nothing”, he snaps. “Now go.”

_Everything_ , he whispers to himself later, staring at the pond-lilies speckling the still surface of his quiet lake without really seeing them. Their green and yellow are bright against the opaque water. The sky is a lovely shade of violet, the trees on the other shore dark silhouettes against it. But there’s no red in his haven.

Maybe that’s why the tears won’t stop coming.


	2. Chapter 2

Reynir doesn’t return the next night, or the following one, or the one after that. Instead, he spends those nights tossing and turning on his thin mattress on the floor of the tank, agonizing over how he could have made things turn out differently, what he could have said or done to avoid the rejection.

(He doesn’t want to admit to himself that, perhaps, he couldn’t have done anything.)

On the fourth night, his resolve crumbles. The cold, white stars light his way over the black ocean of the dreamworld. He doesn’t look down at the dark shadows drifting below the surface.

Though he can’t be certain, he suspects that Onni has been waiting for him. Onni’s eyes are red-rimmed, but their scorching gaze still drives away all coherent thought from Reynir’s head, and he barely manages to stutter out his flimsy excuse:  
“You still didn’t tell me not to come back.”

Onni isn’t gentle this time, but Reynir doesn’t care. He doesn’t mind being pushed up against the hard rock wall, though the rough surface scrapes the skin off his forearms and hands as he braces himself against Onni’s relentless thrusts. He doesn’t complain although Onni’s broad, hot hands grip his hips too tightly, and he only whimpers a little when Onni’s teeth sink into his shoulder, a pain tinged with pleasure. Maybe it’s that whimper that sends Onni over the edge, grunting hoarsely into Reynir’s neck as he spends himself inside him.

He does hold Reynir afterwards, caressing his hair with one hand and stroking him with the other until he, too, finds his release. And he allows Reynir to cling to him as he shudders and gasps while pumping his seed over Onni’s hand. He trails soft kisses over Reynir’s forehead, down over his cheek and along his jaw, while he waits for Reynir’s breathing to calm down. Neither of them speaks. Listening to Onni’s heartbeat and the quiet lapping of the water against the rocks, Reynir almost dares to hope that things will go better than the previous time.

But when he finally forces himself to raise his head and look at Onni, the older mage’s jaw is set and his lips are pressed into a hard line. He’s looking at Reynir’s hands, scraped red by the rough stone.  
“I hurt you”, he says. “I’m sorry.”  
“It doesn’t matter”, Reynir whispers, and he means it. His hands do sting, but that’s a small price to pay if it means that Onni is going to hold him like this, let him nestle into his chest and press his cheek against his sweaty skin.

(Reynir doesn’t know yet that dreamworld injuries have consequences in the waking world. He will find out the next day when he slips on a patch of ice and a small, jagged stone slices his palm open. It isn’t enough to change his mind, though.)

Onni, however, does seem to think that it matters. The hard expression on his face doesn’t waver, though his hands are soft when he helps Reynir clean himself up by the lake. And there’s steel in his grip on Reynir’s shoulder when he walks him to the border of his dreamspace.

This time, he makes sure to tell Reynir not to return. His voice is firm and his eyes are dry, and that, more than anything else, forces Reynir to accept that it’s over. It also kills the half-formed pleas on his lips, leaving him without words. He can only nod mutely, though there’s so much he wants to say, so many questions he needs to ask.  
“I wish you… happiness”, Onni says quietly, before turning away. The grey mist closes up behind him.

This time, it’s Reynir’s turn to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> I was intending to write some fun and fluffy smut. Instead, I ended up with this depressing little story. Got to try again another time, I suppose.


End file.
